


sunshine in an empty place

by AliuIce0814



Series: Frank Castle's SHIELDverse [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Angry Murder Dad, Birthday, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 15:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: Frank's gotta make Miss Joan's birthday perfect.





	sunshine in an empty place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/gifts), [LittleBird20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Do You Kiss On The Fifth Date?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907577) by [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You). 



> This story does NOT directly follow part two of this series! Instead, it follows Do You Kiss On The Fifth Date? by Not_You. Read that first if you want to see Frank and Joan get together. If not (which, what are you doing with your life? RECONSIDER), go ahead and read this one. 
> 
> Frank works for SHIELD, which is a fetish studio. 
> 
> This story was written for my wife's birthday. Love you, Miss.

            Frank’s fingers fumble with the balloon. He can’t tie it off. It’s fucking stupid, is what it is, that he can’t tie off a goddamn balloon, but this is where he’s at. It’s Joan’s birthday, nine AM, with her already at work, and he broke into her apartment to decorate it only to freeze up. Freak out.

            He tries to breathe deeply and evenly like Bruce taught him at work. Usually he wouldn’t try it, but he’s gotta get back on track. He’s gotta make things nice for Joan’s birthday. It’s the first one he’s ever spent with her, and he doesn’t want it to be the last.

            (Frank kind of thinks it’ll be the last. He’s rough and ragged and huge, big callused hands as broad as Joan’s whole face. Doesn’t make sense for her to stay with him. But he hopes.)

            Frank just can’t figure out this goddamn balloon. Balloons reek of cheap plastic, of waking up at four in the morning to pump helium into fifty smiley faces for Lisa’s first birthday party. Frank drops the balloon, feeling the air rush out cold and stale against his face as it deflates.

            At home, he would sit in the dark. He’s already taken the day off work. Doesn’t have any obligations. Could drop down, back against the wall, and listen to the refrigerator hum and pop. Could pull the curtains tight against light and ignore the day moving around him. But he’s here, in Joan’s apartment, surrounded by balloon corpses and tightly wrapped streamers. Her sink drips. He can’t leave, not when he’s already started decorating.

            Frank pulls out his phone and weighs it in his hand. It’s an iPhone, not a new one but a new-to-him one that he bought with one of his first paychecks. Better than the flip phone he’d turned on infrequently when he was living on the streets. Heavier, too. He swipes his thumb across the screen, unlocking it without much thought. When he opens up his contacts, he knows exactly who he’s looking for. Even though it’s a Wednesday, even though they’ve just gotten in touch again, he knows Matt will pick up.

            Sure enough, it takes one ring for Matt to say, “Frank?” In the background, a copier or a printer whirrs. “How are you?”

            “Red,” Frank says. He stops himself before he chews on the edge of the balloon. “You got time?”

            “I’m at the law library right now, but I can make time.” Matt’s voice is clear and even. It’s probably his lawyer voice, but Frank recognizes it from seminary school, when Matt had to talk to the homeless guys at the soup kitchen. “What’s bothering you?”

            Frank wants to say fuck you, just instinctively, because when has he ever wanted Matt Murdock to be his shrink? But Frank made this phone call. He sighs. “Joan’s birthday.”

            “Your girlfriend, right?”

            The phrase startles a laugh out of Frank. “Ain’t we a little old for girlfriends?”

            “Your...date, then? Your person?”

            “Sure, my person, yeah. I was gonna decorate while she’s at work, got into her apartment and everything—”

            “You mean broke in.”

            “—but I just. Can’t.” Frank tosses the balloon back onto the pile of decorations. He’s only sort of aware of his own hand gripping the phone. “I don’t do birthdays. Not anymore. But for Miss—uh, for Joan—” He knows Matt heard the slip-up. He also knows that if Matt mentions it, Frank’ll punch him right in the jaw.

             “Yeah,” Matt says quietly. The copier or printer whirrs again. Paper shuffles. A chair creaks. Frank thinks about going into the library at seminary school and finding Matt there, fingers flying across braille Bible pages, face open and rapt. “What time does she get off of work?”

            “3:15,” Frank says. “Usually home by 3:45. I’m allowed to worry at 4:15.”

            “Six hours, then.” Matt makes a quiet sound that’s not a word. “What’s her address?”  
           

             Frank frowns. “You’re not actually coming over, are you, Red?” He doesn’t expect him to. Bigshot lawyers don’t leave their jobs in the middle of the day to deal with fucked-up college friends. That ain’t real.

  
            Matt says, “Let me check with my ride.”

#

            The daylight has shifted across Joan’s living room when a floorboard creaks outside her apartment. Frank’s on his feet and looking through the peephole before Matt can even raise his hand to knock on the door. There are two blonds lurking behind him; Frank grumbles when he realizes that one of them is Foggy Nelson. He opens the door anyway, his heart going tight in his chest. “What the hell, Matt?”

            Matt tilts his head. He’s got those round red glasses on that he wears now, has a suit on with the shirt buttoned clear up to the top and a black tie carefully knotted, but he’s still got the same stubble he’s had as long as Frank’s known him. It makes Frank relax a little, knowing that Matty Murdock is somewhere inside that stuffed suit. “We’re here to help,” Matt says, tapping his white stick against the doorframe.

            Frank scowls at the two blondies. “‘We’?”

            Nelson ducks his head, apparently trying to make his broad frame shrink to fit behind Matt, but the secretary—Karen, Frank remembers, Ms. Page—steps forward, smiling. “Well, Foggy had to drive Matt, and I wasn’t going to stay in the office alone.”

            “Ma’am,” Frank says. Her even gaze stirs up a curl of guilt behind his ribs. He shakes her hand. “Thanks for coming to help. There ain’t a lot to do, though, really, Red.”

            “You called,” Matt says mildly. He steps past Frank, folding his cane as he goes, and stands just inside the apartment. Between his autism and his blind-guy-bullshit, he’s probably hearing everything from the hum of the refrigerator to the rhythm of Frank’s heart. Whatever he senses, it’s enough for him to be able to walk around the pile of balloons and sit on the couch without missing a step. “Though I may not be the best person for this specific job.”

            “You helped with birthdays before,” Frank mumbles. He doesn’t say whose. Matt knows. Apparently Karen and Nelson don’t. They both look between Frank and Matt, Nelson with suspicious narrowed eyes, Karen with her lip caught thoughtfully between her teeth. Frank pushes the door open all the way and jerks his head at them. “Get inside. Shoes off at the door, or Joan’ll kill me. I’ll let you know what needs doing.”

            There really isn’t much to it: balloons, streamers, some flowers Frank needs to trim the stems to and set in a vase. But he still can’t get his hands to move, even as Nelson starts blowing up balloons and Karen stands on a chair to tape streamers above the flatscreen TV. Matt keeps sitting on the couch, his head tilted again. Frank forces himself into motion just long enough to drop onto the couch beside him. “Thanks,” he says again in a low voice. His hands curl into fists. Matt holds out his hands, palms facing out toward Frank. Frank hesitates just a second before he lands punches, one-two-three, right in the middle of Matt’s palms. Matt stays solid. He doesn’t even sway.

            “Watch your knuckles,” Matt says. “You’re rusty.”

            “I know, Tasha’s been kicking my ass in the ring at work,” Frank grumbles. “She could kick your ass too, Murdock. Terrifying.”

            “I’ll have to try her sometime,” Matt says, a smile creeping onto his face.

            Frank snorts. “Do it. Beatdown of the century. Take your ego down a couple notches.”

            “I’d rather fight you. Get you back into shape.” Matt tugs at Frank’s clenched fingers until they unfurl. He raises Frank’s hands into position and then batters his palms with beautiful punches. Even sitting on a couch in a suit, he lands each one perfectly. It’s disgusting. Frank knocks his hands away. Matt clears his throat. “Remember your apartment in the Kitchen, when Lisa used to watch us—”

            “Stop,” Frank snaps. Matt holds up his hands, not to be punched, though he’d probably take the hit, but in surrender. Frank thinks about throwing a punch anyway. His hands are shaking again.

            “I’m sorry,” Matt says quietly.

            “Stop,” Frank repeats.

            Matt pulls off his glasses and tucks them carefully into his breast pocket. Like that, Frank can see his misty, unfocused eyes flickering vainly in his direction. “Tell me about Joan.”

            “Yeah,” Nelson wheezes, tying off a balloon with a plasticky screech. “Tell us about this lady whose birthday party we get to decorate but aren’t invited to.”

  
            Frank scowls at Nelson. Before he can put him in his place, Karen says, “At least a little bit. It’s only fair.” She hops off the chair she’s using as a stool and looks expectantly at Frank, purple streamers bundled in her hands. The daylight glints off her blonde hair. For a moment, Frank sees Maria in her place, hands full of party supplies, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.

            Frank swallows. “Ma’am,” he says. He clears his throat. Matt breathes evenly beside him. “She, uh, she teaches kindergarten. Well, assistant teaches. Helps wrangle ‘em. She’s good at it, too. Kids always send her home with drawings and shit. Go look at the fridge if you want. She says she doesn’t want to teach much older than that ‘cause the kids get too close to her height.” Frank’s mouth moves of its own accord, pulling into a grin. “She’s not wrong. Little slip of a thing. Lets me carry her around when she gets home, keep her safe. But she keeps me in line.” Frank ducks his head. Matt can’t see him blushing, but he can probably hear his heartrate ticking up. “She’s good,” Frank says quietly. He hopes Karen and Nelson can’t hear him. “Better than I deserve.”

            “I’d like to meet her,” Matt says. Frank wobbles a little with sudden vertigo—it’s ten years ago, and Matt’s saying the same thing about Maria. Frank shakes it off.

  
            “Do you have a cake for her?” Karen asks as she shifts the chair over a few feet and steps up onto it again.

            Frank shakes his head. “Nah, I can’t bake. Anyway, she mostly—”

            “Huh,” Nelson says.

            “—likes frosting, cake ain’t—”

            “Huh,” Nelson says again.

            “—really her thing.”

            “Huh,” Nelson says, drawing himself up to his full sitting height and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yes, Foggy?” Matt says, grinning.

            Nelson huffs. “As at least two of you in this room should recall, I grew up around the culinary arts. Now, I know I tend to emphasize the butcher bit, but I do know how to bake a mean cake, and my buttercream frosting is phenomenal.”

            “And you’re the one who was complaining so much about coming here, Counselor.” Matt’s eyebrows quirk.

            Nelson sighs. “Okay, yes, admittedly, I don’t really want to be around your angry murder friend any longer than I have to be. However, that industrial-sized mixer I noticed on the counter on my way in is calling to me, and since nobody else around here knows how to use it….”

            “Joan does,” Frank says.

            Nelson raises his eyebrows at Frank in a way that feels vaguely condescending. “Is she going to bake her own birthday cake? No? There you go.” Nelson pushes himself to his feet and pads into the kitchen. An unholy rattling and clanking emerges. Matt’s whole body flinches, hands twitching up toward his ears. Frank moves at the same time, palms coming to cover both of Matt’s ears before he thinks the action through. “Sorry, Matty,” Nelson calls, still banging the pans under the oven around. “Just gotta find another round tin—got it.” The sound dies away. Frank drops his hands from Matt’s ears. Matt breathes deeply through his nose and flashes his teeth at Frank. Even though Matt can’t see him, Frank grimaces back.

            “So what does your girlfriend like?” Nelson says. A cabinet thunks closed. “Vanilla, chocolate, fruit fillings? Give me some ideas here, Murder Man.”

            “Raspberries,” Frank says. “Always got a few cartons in the fridge. Raspberries and lemons.”

            “Got it,” Nelson says. He keeps mumbling to himself as he putters around Joan’s kitchen, something about _can’t screw this up_ and _body in a swamp in New Jersey._ Karen asks Matt a question about a case, and Matt leaps into legal speak. When she passes him balloons and ribbons, his nimble fingers tie them together easily. Frank lets the sound wash over him and takes a few balloons too. He’s still a little shaky, but it’s not hard once he gets into the rhythm of it. In the brief silences between speech or the mixer’s whirr, he listens for soft feet on the stairs or on the carpet outside the door.

#

            The rich smell of raspberry jam fills the apartment by the time Matt lifts his head in the middle of a conversation about the Mayweather versus McGregor match and says, “I think I hear her.”

            Frank listens closely. It’s half a minute before he recognizes the small feet treading the carpeted hall. “Yeah, that’s her.”

            “Shit,” Nelson yelps. He slams the oven door shut. “Oh my god, I haven’t frosted the cake yet. Oh my god, do we hide? Should we hide? Where should we hide?”

            “Shut up,” Frank snaps. “You’ll scare her.” He stands up and moves to the door as Joan’s keys jingle on the other side. On the few occasions when she’s left him in her apartment, he’s greeted her by kneeling by the door. It might confuse Matt, but Frank doubts he would mind; the imagery’s close enough to a Catholic concept of service that he might even like it. But the blonds are here, and there’s no way in hell Frank’s dealing with their reactions. He stays a few steps back instead, eyes trained on the door as it swings open. He waits just a moment for Joan to kick off her shoes before he presses forward and wraps his arms around her.

            “Oh,” Joan breathes, going stiff with surprise before she relaxes in Frank’s arms. “Frank! What are you doing here, sweet boy?”

            “Happy birthday, Miss,” Frank says softly. “There are people here, I’m sorry. I, uh, I called Matt to help me.”

            Joan’s fingers grip Frank’s shirt. “Your friend Matt? From seminary school?” And God, Frank adores her for remembering that.

            “Yeah. He brought some friends, though, couldn’t get rid of them. They ended up being useful anyway.”

            “Useful for what?” Joan’s voice loops around in a mixture of amusement and suspicion. “What did you do?” She tugs at Frank’s shirt. “Up.”

            “Yes, Miss.” Frank lifts Joan into his arms, cradling her to his chest. She burrows against his neck for a moment before she lifts her head. Frank grins when she gasps. “Happy birthday,” he says. He watches her brown eyes get wider and her mouth drop open before breaking into the broadest grin he’s ever seen from her, and his too-tight heart relaxes.

            “Oh my god, sweetheart. Sweet boy.” Joan takes his face in her slender hands and kisses his forehead, nose, and mouth. Frank can feel his neck burning. Matt’s smiling like an idiot on the couch, so Frank’s sure he can sense it, too. “You’re so good,” Joan says. Frank swallows hard. Joan nuzzles against him before she tugs at his shoulders. “Show me everything,” she demands. “And introduce me to everyone. I want to meet your friends.”

            “One friend. Two interlopers,” Frank says. Nelson mumbles _yes_ from the kitchen. “Do you want me to set you down?”

            “Of course not,” Joan says. She tips her chin up and looks down on him impetuously. “It’s my birthday.”

            Matt stands. “Happy birthday, Joan,” he says. Frank’s body thrums with tension he didn’t realize he was carrying until now as Joan’s clear brown eyes study Matt’s blank brown ones. Matt tilts his head to one side and holds out his hand. When Joan takes it, Frank knows Matt must feel everything from the softness of her palm to the thrum of her pulse just below her skin. Joan leans so far into the handshake that Frank has to readjust his grip on her. Both Matt and Joan smile at the same time. “It’s good to meet you.”

            “It’s good to meet you too,” Joan says. She looks at Frank sideways with a mischievous glint in her eye before she adds, “Frank talks about Matty all the time.”

            “I guess it’s too much to hope that he’s only mentioned the good things.”

            “They’ve been good enough,” Joan says. She squeezes Matt’s hand before she lets go. “So there’s your friend, dear one. Who are the interlopers at my birthday party?”

  
            Karen waves from her spot by the TV. “Guilty,” she says. “Karen Page. I’m the secretary at Nelson and Murdock. I put up the streamers.”

            “Foggy Nelson,” Nelson says, wiping his hands on his apron and stepping into the living room. “The better-looking half of Nelson and Murdock. I baked the cake, and it’s beautiful. It’s not frosted yet, but by the time it is, I promise you, it’ll be so pretty you won’t even want to eat it. Except you will because it tastes incredible. Just so you know.”

            Frank can’t help rumbling a growl. Joan quirks an eyebrow at him until he ducks his head. She pats his shoulder. “You baked me a cake?” she asks Nelson, eyes wide.

            “Lemon cake, lemon frosting, raspberry jam filling. Your boyfriend suggested it.”

            Joan twists in Frank’s arms and cups his chin in her hands. He leans into the cool touch. “Frank,” she says, staring right into his eyes. He nods. “Frank, be friends with these interlopers. You have to. They baked me a cake.”

            “Miss,” Frank mutters. “Please.”

            “It’s my birthday, dear,” she points out. She kisses his nose. When his eyes flutter closed at the touch, she kisses his eyelids, too. “Thank you. Sweet, sweet boy.”

            “He’s good, isn’t he?” Matt says quietly. Frank wishes he could reach back and hit him, but he won’t drop Joan. His whole face is burning now. “Once you get to the soft cotton Frank inside.”

            “He’s the best,” Joan says. She bats her eyelashes against Frank’s hot cheek and straightens up in his arms. “Now come on, Foggy. Ice that cake. I’m starving.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to Not_You for letting me play in your fabulous universe.


End file.
